


Between the Water and the Walls

by ceywoozle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 19:05:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1439461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John sings in the shower and Sherlock plays along on his violin when he thinks he can't hear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between the Water and the Walls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [belle_of_the_fall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/belle_of_the_fall/gifts).



> thanks to skulls-and-tea for being my sounding board!

It begins with a rush of water. The hiss of spray against the shower curtain, the rattle of curtain rings on the metal rod. For just over thirty seconds this is it—hiss, rush, spray, rattle—heard through the thin membrane of plywood and drywall and paint. Then there is the louder slap of water, like something solid being dropped, as a hand is passed under the spray and the temperature is checked. And then John coughs, or clears his throat, or sighs, always that moment of preparation before he steps over the edge of the tub and ducks underneath.

Sometimes he starts right away, sometimes he will scrub his face first, depending on the kind of day he's had. But soon, always within the first forty-five seconds, he will start singing.

It is usually something quiet, easy strains in his soft tenor, floating through the sound of water and past the barrier of the door. Sometimes it's The Beatles, the steady push in his voice as he pulls towards some passionate centre, spouting nonsense lyrics of walruses and flying girls with diamonds with the conviction and depth of a man praying to his God. Other times it's Leonard Cohen, his voice plaintive, soft and unutterably sad, even when the notes sit unwavering in the major scale and every word is a partisan's cry towards love, sex and religion.

Sherlock only knows these things because he's looked them up, tapping lyrics into the search engine on John's laptop, reading along as Suzanne takes John's hand and every time he cries out _help_ because he needs somebody in a straining passion of conviction.

And at first it annoys him, the triteness of some lyrics, the nonsense of others. God, sex, religion. None of it belongs to him. It's a different world, separated by plywood and drywall and paint, the world of steam and hissing water and shower curtains. The world that John inhabits, on the other side of the bathroom door.

But after a while he starts to listen, and even when he doesn't understand the words he finds he can understand John, the constriction of passion, the longing of things that Sherlock doesn't get to see, not when they're both standing on this side of the door, without steam and tile to echo John's words and keep them close around him.

It takes three weeks for Sherlock to establish the pattern of John's moods, the rotation of songs, the ones he always falls back on when other words fail him and he'll start up with a chest deep hum before sliding into the even harmony of 'The Sisters of Mercy' or 'Chelsea Hotel No. 2'.

It takes four weeks for Sherlock to pick up his violin and learn the harmonies in tandem with those words, the strings vibrating with the steady stream of the water and the pulse of John's voice.

Sherlock learns John's favourites, and when he's done that he learns the songs that John sings when he's tired, when he's depressed, when the clinic is busy and his shoulder is hurting. He learns the vibrations of John's soul through the songs he chooses and the cadence of his voice as he sings them, and there are days when John comes out of the shower and finds a cup of tea sitting by his chair, still hot with the right amount of milk in it and he'll look at Sherlock quizzically before he smiles and Sherlock, ignoring him, will try not to smile back.

It is not something that Sherlock talks about and John, with his head under the spray and his own voice in his ears, is never aware of it. Sherlock serenades him from the window and it takes eight weeks before he realises that it is a serenade and another two after that before he comes to the abrupt conclusion that the songs have become as much a part of his own routine as they are a part of John's.

That is the first day that he loses himself in the music, in the sigh and murmur of John's voice, in the rush of water and the clash of the spray against the plastic curtain. For the first time, he is not just playing alongside the music of another, but is part of it, his own piece written into the unwitting symphony that is being played.

It is on the second day that he realises that the sound of the spray is too loud and that the singing has stopped and he looks up from the rising stroke of his bow to find John, with a towel wrapped around his waist and standing in the bathroom doorway while the shower runs in the background, too loud, the symphony thrown off, and Sherlock's bow screeches to a halt against the strings in sudden startled protest.

For a moment the only sound in the flat is the shower running as Sherlock stares at John, watching him from the doorway with his mouth agape and a hand clutching the towel around at his waist.

And then John gives a huff of startled laughter and shakes his head, taking a step into the room and Sherlock finds himself mirroring the gesture, his own foot moving backwards at the same time.

John stops. Stares at him, his head tilted to one side, and Sherlock can't read the look on his face and absurdly he wishes that John would start to sing.

“That's my song,” John says.

Sherlock starts to nod, changes his mind. Stares at John with his violin still clamped to his shoulder like a shield.

“The song,” John says, taking another step into the room and once more Sherlock finds himself copying it, another pace back towards the window. John stops. “The one you were playing,” he says. “That's the song I was singing just now.” And without waiting for an answer John is singing once more, softly, his tone oddly contemplative as he stares at Sherlock, the words droning in cadences somehow flat and musical at once.

 

_“Now I've heard there was a secret chord_

_That David played and it pleased the Lord,_

_But you don't really care for music, do you?”_

 

Sherlock knows that the question is for him, that this song was chosen with him in mind, and he can hear the shower running through the open door and the low drone of John's voice and he knows this symphony, this language, has spent weeks learning it, and he raises his bow almost before he's aware that he's doing it and the strains of the violin cry out _hallelujah_ with the same strain as John, the same beating belief at its centre.

He doesn't even realise he's closed his eyes until he's opened them again and John has drawn closer, and every careful step becomes a part of the lyrics that he sings and Sherlock knows, he understands the words completely as John sings them to him in an untrained tenor that's low with the sound of something holy and broken.

And when he is close, inches away, and his hand reaches up to touch the back of Sherlock's neck, Sherlock lets it, and then there is nothing between them but the last hallelujah falling unfinished from John's tongue.

 


End file.
